


Kylux & Adjacent Ficlets

by H3llcat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Clydeland, Forced Marriage, M/M, Mpreg, Techienician, Underage Drinking, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:34:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13442868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3llcat/pseuds/H3llcat
Summary: "I resolve not to make snide remarks to the Supreme Leader about his strategic decisions." - Prompt from The Kylux Cantina, Week 33 "Resolutions"





	1. Snide Remarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I resolve not to make snide remarks to the Supreme Leader about his strategic decisions." - Prompt from The Kylux Cantina, Week 33 "Resolutions"

“I want every gun we have to fire on that man.” **  
**

Hux isn’t sure he hears correctly. It’s one man. One  _lone_ ,  _old_  man in open nothingness. They have him completely trapped. He’s come to them like a nerf to the slaughter. Every gun they have? That’s a lot of guns. He isn’t able to wipe the disbelief from his face as he looks questioningly to the new Supreme Leader.

“Do it.”

The first AT-M6 fires, opening the floodgates for an all out barrage… aimed at  _one man_. He clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, resists the urge to press his eyes closed.

“More!”

He should be frightened, their new leader is little more than a tantruming child, posture hunched, mouth stretching wide to scream manic, unadvised orders, but instead he is irritated. He has worked tirelessly to paint the First Order as a force to be reckoned with, organized, disciplined… all of that is obliterated beneath the stomping feet of a toddler not getting his way.

“More!”

The ground where the old man stood is a cloud of decimated red mineral, but Ren doesn’t call off the attack. It's something he could have accomplished with five minutes and a blaster. “That’s enough,” Hux murmurs, trying to reason with the unreasonable, but the Supreme Leader doesn’t so much as glance in his direction. The Resistance is no doubt taking this opportunity they’ve handed to them on a silver platter to get away. “That’s enough!” He hasn’t yet lost the respect of his men, his order is obeyed.

Hux watches as Ren deflates back into his chair, hulking shoulders slumping like it has taken some great deal of physical effort on his part to waste their valuable time. A quip rolls to the tip of his tongue at the pathetic display. He promised himself not to poke and prod at Ren, not yet anyways, he needs to gain his favor and prove his worth in these uncertain times. But as he watches his quivering chin, the dumb twitches of fat lips, he’s so overcome with disgust that it slips out. “Do you think you got him?”


	2. Budget Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "First Order budget cuts" - Prompt from The Kylux Cantina, Week 33 "Resolutions"

“And what do you plan to do with our budget?” Hux doesn’t glance away from his datapad where he’s sorting the frantic messages pouring in from High Command by importance. “We will need to reallocate our resources to repair the Supremacy as quickly as possible.” 

“I’m cutting your uniform budget.” 

The words are spoken evenly, monotonously, Hux looks up. “Excuse me?” 

“Gaberwool is expensive.” A nonchalant shrug that has him seeing red. 

“You’re cutting  _ my  _ uniform budget exclusively, or  _ the _ uniform budget?” 

“Just yours, General. And your current wardrobe can be cut up and used for other purposes.”

Hux’s lips part for biting words, but he forces them shut with a pleasant enough hum as he considers. “Are you…” A pause as he searches for the terminology he had only recently learned, “ _ tooling _ with me?” 

“I figure it’ll serve as a morale boost as well, having your bare ass paraded around my ship. The crew needs something to cheer them up after the losses we’ve incurred.” 

“You’re insufferable.” Hux turns back to his datapad, thoroughly unamused. 

“I thought you were willing to do anything for the betterment of the Order.”  
  
Ren snakes a hand around his narrow waist and he resists smacking it away. “Can’t you see I’m actually attempting to  _ work _ ? I realize that is a foreign concept to you, but now that you are Supreme Leader--” He is silenced with a kiss that demands all of his attention, sighing into the gesture as he comes to the realizations that he is no longer in a position to refuse and that their new leader is a selfish man-child who  _ would _ have sex in mind while their fleet is in shambles. He sets his datapad down before Ren can knock it from his hands and allows himself to be backed up towards his own bed. Best to just get it over with so he can get back to rebuilding their cause. 


	3. 'Til Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An angsty take on the news that Hux and Ren are getting married in episode IX~

There is no music, no flowers, just somber rows of the First Order’s most important allies standing in wait on the other side of the heavy doors. The whole ordeal is very utilitarian, sterile, more like a promotion ceremony than a wedding, though lacking the quiet swell of pride that accompanies a job well done acknowledged. Perhaps that's how he should think of it, Hux decides with a humorless smirk as he waits for the doors to be opened for him. A promotion. Bypassing his coveted Grand Marshal for the unwanted title of Spouse of the Supreme Leader.

\--

_“What purpose does this serve?” Hux fought to knit together his fraying composure, but he was all too aware of Ren’s gaze catching on the fluttering, panicked pulse at his throat._

_“To keep you loyal.”_

_“I--”_

_“You think I don’t know you believe the Order would be better off with you at the head? Well, now you are, General. At my side.”_

_Hux forced his expression into something that he hoped resembled bored indifference. “Do you really believe marriage vows will keep you safe?”_

_Ren lifted a broad shoulder in a shrug, something wicked glinting in his dark eyes. “When you realize you would be the first one suspected if I turn up dead, yes. What’s the point in killing me if you follow shortly after?”_

\--

The attendant beside the door asks if he’s ready, snapping him from his thoughts. Hux gives a curt nod and she helps him situate his veil over his face, a ridiculous thing, sheer fabric trimmed with fine lace hanging to his calves in the front and trailing along the ground behind him. “An Arkanian tradition,” Ren had insisted. _Humiliation_ , Hux had translated. Aside from that, he had chosen to wear his uniform. It’s comforting in its familiar stiffness and powerful in appearance, a bold reminder of who he is while Ren is intent on painting him as little more than his new whore.

The doors are opened and he wastes no time, striding towards Ren waiting at the end with a quick step and military rigidity, no different than if he were walking along his bridge. His head is held high and gloved hands curl into fists at his sides as he comes to stand beside his wretched husband-to-be, ignoring the imagined mockery in the heavy gazes of their guests.

Hux’s hand is ceremoniously placed atop Ren’s, skin not touching, as they each repeat their vows, simple words, both promising loyalty, Hux’s promising obedience, ‘til death do they part.


	4. Second Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think I love you" - Benarmie prompt

The words stop Armitage in his tracks, brows pulling quick together as he tries to determine if the sentiment is meant for him. He can sense that little presence behind him as he has been able to this entire trip (some diplomatic nonsense that his father had dragged him along on, insisting it would be “good, practical experience”). The boy has been like a second shadow, always peeking around corners at him with wide, warm eyes, tiptoeing behind as he strode down the impersonal halls with his shoulders squared and head held high in a self important, poor imitation of Hux Sr. And here the shadow is now, lingering for once in the open with an uncertain hunch to his already gangly body when Armitage turns to face him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I think I love you,” the boy hopefully repeats, his heart in his eyes.

Armitage snorts, but feels heat rising to his cheeks. It’s a strange thing to hear aloud, the words admittedly foreign to him with a nonexistent mother and a father who believes sentimentality to be an inconvenience at best. He tries not to find them shocking, instead carefully rearranging his face into an expression that he hopes conveys amusement. “And what makes you say that?”

“You look like an angel.” Clumsy pink lips tilt up into a smile that Armitage refuses to find endearing.

“Angels aren’t real.”

“They are so. They live on the moons of Iego. They’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe.”

“And who told you that?”

“I can  _read_ ,” the child huffs, offended. He is probably only a couple of years, maybe five, Armitage’s junior, but he refuses to think of him as anything more than  _the child_. (Friends are also an inconvenience at best, his father said so.)

“Only storybooks apparently.”

“I didn’t know angels were so mean. I like your orange hair though. It looks like fire.”

Armitage actually averts his gaze, a moment of weakness, in a fruitless attempt to hide the blotchy redness spreading over his cheeks. “Yes, well, that’s quite enough of that. I must go pack now. We’re leaving today.” He isn’t sure why he feels the need to tell the boy this.

A round, soft face falls with unwarranted sadness, a fat bottom lip sucked between crooked buck teeth. “Don’t forget me, angel.”

“You’re a funny little boy.” There is almost fondness thawing the observation as Armitage turns and walks away.


	5. Last Day Of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love your hugs” - Benarmie prompt from Cosleia, set in a modern AU

It’s the last day of summer, the last few hours actually, and they spend it with their backs in the grass, a bottle of something bitter that Ben had pilfered from Armitage’s father’s stash being passed between them as they watch the sun disappear behind the hills.

“I don’t know how you can drink this shit with a straight face,” Ben grumbles, words already a little looser, a little slower. He takes a swig anyways. He winces.

“Skilled drinking is a trait passed down in my family.” It sounds like a joke. It’s not. Armitage grabs the bottle back, cradling it between his hands like something precious before bringing it to his lips. He can sense his face is flushed in the fading light, but doesn’t otherwise feel the effects of the vile drink. “After we graduate, let’s move far away. Like out of the country. On the other side of the world even.” Maybe he’s feeling the effects a little bit.

“Somewhere your dad can’t find us?” Ben guesses a little too abruptly, his filter nowhere to be found. He holds his breath, half expecting an outburst, but none comes.

“Exactly. We’ll live in the rainforest in a weird little hut. He hates wildlife, he’d never come after us there.”

“You don’t like wildlife either,” Ben points out. He reaches for the bottle and whines low in the back of his throat when Armitage teasingly holds it away from him. He smacks his friend’s arm when he can sense his smirk, pushing to sit up so he can grab the alcohol. “Wherever we go, I’ll keep you safe, you know that. We don’t have to live in the fucking rainforest in a hut. You’d die without wifi and running water.” He screws the cap onto the bottle and tries to settle back down beside Armitage, but loses his balance and ends up on top of him instead. Rather than moving, Ben slips his arms around Armitage’s slender frame, holding him close, tight, hoping to convey through the gesture what he could never find words for, even in his drunken state. “I know you hate hugs, but… just for a sec…”

“I _do_ hate hugs. But… not yours.” The tension melts from Armitage’s limbs with each word, ending in a resigned sigh. “I love your hugs.” The sentiment is hardly a breath. Ben isn’t even certain he hears it correctly, but he takes it as an invitation anyways to wrap his arms a little bit tighter, to bury his face in the top of Armitage’s soft hair (he smiles against it when he feels slender fingers curl hesitantly around his waist).


	6. Soft and Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hush, nobody needs to know" - Prompt from the Kylux Cantina

The door slides open with a hiss to permit Hux entry to Ren’s quarters, but he pulls up short as if there had been a second barrier unseen in his way. His brow lifts towards his hairline when he’s hit by the scent of a prepared meal, accosted next by the sight of candlesticks on the table, flowers in a vase. The whole thing looks a little sloppy, napkins folded poorly and silverware askew, but great care and thought had clearly been put into it. He fights to keep his haughty mask in place but can feel the surprise weighing heavy in his own gaze when he turns his eyes to Ren. “What…?” —Had he combed his hair?

“You’ve been working hard,” Ren offers, stiff and awkward, as if this somehow explains the odd display. His hair is definitely combed to a glossy shine, the waves soft and beautiful opposed to their usual chaotic tangle. He’s even made an attempt to dress nicely, his tunic pressed and boots gleaming. “I thought you could use an evening to not worry about anything. But if you don’t like it—“

“No,” Hux snaps, perhaps a bit more harshly than intended. “It’s not… I don’t… it’s just… are you trying to date me?” That’s not what they did. They had quick fucks in utility closets, blowjobs beneath the desk, not candlelight dinners and romantic atmospheres.

“It could be, we could be… like that,” Ren offers sheepishly, realizing a moment too late that the thoughts had been frantic, private snippets from Hux’s mind rather than words voiced aloud.

Hux looks back to the set table, unwilling to acknowledge the way his stomach flutters at the thought that someone had done this for him. “It’s impossible. What would the crew think?” He’s grasping for excuses, for a reason to say no, though he isn’t certain at all that he wants to decline. “We would lose their respect. Or, I certainly would anyways. They’re terrified of you, I suppose. We can’t just—“ He hadn’t even realized how closely he had drifted to Ren with each word until the other man’s arms encircled his frame.

“Shut up,” Ren chides with a grin far too amused for Hux’s liking. “No one needs to know, do they?”

Hux almost resents the way his body relaxes on instinct when Ren’s got him tight and close— almost. “So we’d what, exactly? Date in secret like rebellious adolescents?”

“You’d still retain your image of Scary General, no one would know how soft and sweet you are for me.”

“I’m not soft and sweet.”

“Sometimes. Just for me.”

A weary sigh like he’d be doing Ren a great, inconvenient favor by accepting. “Did you cook the meal?”

“No.”

“Good. Okay.”


	7. Like Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clydeland

“When are you gonna lock that down?”

Mellie’s voice drags Clyde from his daze, an ugly blush blotching his cheeks and spreading down his neck when he realizes he’s been scrubbing the same spot on the bar for who knows how long. “Come again?”

“You’ve been starin’ at ‘im like you’re afraid he’s gonna disappear.” She inclines her head towards Stensland to punctuate her point. He’s making some attempt at cleaning the floor, his small, soft hands wrapped around a mop that is doubling as a dance partner and microphone. He’d recently learned all of Clyde’s favorite songs and has taken to choosing the same three over and over on the jukebox after closing. Clyde never minds. “When are you gonna put a ring on it?”

“Like marriage?” He asks in a higher pitch with a dumb, slow blink.

“Yes,  _like marriage_. Jesus, Clyde.”

Clyde’s brows lift in surprise like he’s never considered the idea before, and truly he hasn’t. Stensland fast become a constant in his life, fitting as perfectly as if he’d always been there. Clyde hasn’t seen a need to change their dynamic, it never felt like they were missing any pieces— but now that she mentioned it… “Hey, Stens!” He calls across the empty bar, waiting for off key singing mimicking a country drawl in an Irish lilt to stop (though shimmying hips don’t). “Wanna get hitched?”

“Okay!” Stensland yells back as easily as if he’s agreeing to Chinese takeout for dinner, and shoots him a thumbs up. “Can I wear a breezy suit or do I have to wear a dress?”

“A suit is good!”

“Okay! Can I have a ring?”

“Yeah! Come ‘ere.”

Stensland props his mop against the wall and trots over to the bar, thrusting out his right hand. Clyde pushes it down and takes his left one instead, bracing it against his own chest as he winds a red stirring straw about his fiancé’s finger. He twists the ends to keep it in place, and Stens proudly holds it up to the light like he’s admiring a glittering gem instead of cheap plastic. He holds it out to Mellie next, and she rolls her eyes as she takes his fingers in hand to inspect Clyde’s handiwork.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it. Don’t get too big for your britches. Now get out of here, don’t you have cleaning to do?” She gives Stensland a push that somehow reads as affectionate. “Y’all are lucky you found each other,” she mumbles against the opening of her beer bottle once he cha-chas away.

Clyde goes back to cleaning the day’s stickiness from the wooden bartop, the smallest of smiles curling his lips.


	8. Under Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clydeland

_“If you take a job I got on Saturday, I’ll give you two weeks worth of my best shit.”_ The offer from his dealer had immediately peaked Stensland’s interest. While he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of more work, he was assured that it would take half an hour at most which had sounded manageable, and it would allow him another vacation from his actual job for two weeks. It sounded like a great deal, really. It had  _then_  anyways. At the time. Now he isn’t so certain, the tiny shorts he’d been given riding up his ass, his nipples chafing beneath the unnecessarily tight matching top. **  
**

He squints at the numbers screwed into the aluminum siding of the trailer beside the screen door, and compares them to the ones he had scribbled onto a soda stained napkin, satisfied that the address matches up. “You’re a beautiful condor, Stensland,” he assures himself as he makes his way up the couple of steps with his fragmented pride. “Spread your wings and soar. Show ‘em what you’ve got.” He knocks.

The door is answered by someone who has no business being as large as he is both vertically and horizontally, tall and broad, muscles bulging obscenely at his clean button down (though he  _is_ missing a hand, so Stensland supposes that balances things out a bit). There doesn’t seem to be a party or an event of any sort happening behind him as Stensland had expected, but he’s never done this before, so maybe he had just assumed wrong. “Hello,” he says awkwardly before remembering the script he had copied in now-fading ballpoint pen on the back of his hand. He shifts his weight awkwardly from one booted foot to the other as he tries to make out the ink smudges. “You’re under arrest for not having enough fun on your birthday.” He remembers he’s supposed to sound enthusiastic halfway through the statement. He pulls the fake handcuffs off his costume belt with a spastic flourish while trying to wriggle past the man into the trailer, fumbling with his phone in his hand to find the song that had been selected for him.

-

“Hey, wait a minute…” Clyde’s mouth gapes as he watches the skinny stranger in an offensive parody of a police uniform shove past him into the room. “Birthday? But it’s not—“ The stranger gets the music playing, a terrible, thumping song the likes of which Clyde imagines they play in those fancy clubs in the city. Is this how they dance in the city too? One moment he looks as if he’s swinging an invisible lasso above his head, the next he’s wagging his finger at some unseen misbehaving dog, shrugging his shoulders, all as if he’s listening to a different song altogether.

The redhead tosses his police cap at Clyde’s chest before spinning around and popping his bottom to some beat that’s definitely not present in the synthetic noise bubbling from blown out phone speakers. He pulls the uniform shirt over his head, or he tries anyways, but Clyde has to step forward and help when it gets caught on his head. Next his hands go to his shimmying hips, gripping both sides of the shorts and giving a hard tug. And another tug. Another. Finally the snaps give, leaving him in only a pair of underwear that look mighty uncomfortable, some sort of stretchy material in sequined silver that flosses up between his buttcheeks.

“Why are you takin’ your clothes off in my home?” Clyde finally asks, arm clutching the costume pieces as he watches a soft, pale body writhe to the music.

“You’re under arrest for not having enough fun on your birthday. I think you’re supposed to sit down so I can rub my arse on your cock.” Small hands are placed on Clyde’s shoulders and he’s given a push until he’s seated in his tattered recliner. The redhead awkwardly straddles the wide chair, plopping down in Clyde’s lap in a move he isn’t sure is deliberate or if he’d just lost his balance. His tailbone grinds down against Clyde’s hip, off target, ass cheeks clenching unattractively each time he lifts back up. He’s humming something under his breath, the tune staccatoed through his bouncing. The stripper rolls his hips in an inelegant, awkward movement, but still Clyde feels his dick stirring to life and quickly shoves his hand between them in an ineffectual attempt to hide it. A clammy ass crack grinds across his knuckles, and he makes a garbled sound in the back of his throat somewhere between lusty arousal and horror.

“It’s not my birthday for‘nother month!” Clyde insists, voice coming out more like a wounded yelp.

“It’s not…?” The stranger stops dancing, shoulders drooping pitifully with his awful posture, the gears turning in his head nearly visible. “Isn’t this 156 County Road 13?”

“Nope. This is 159. Sorry ‘bout that. The 9 on my house fell over so it looks kinda like a 6, ya see. Guess I shoulda… fixed that sooner.” He can feel his cheeks lighting up bright red as he averts his gaze.

“Oh,” is all the dancer dumbly says with a few slow blinks. “Oopsies.” He shrugs and bends at the waist to pick his clothes up off the floor, the searching movements wiggling him around more in Clyde’s lap before he hops up to redress. He can’t get the snaps on the shorts to cooperate, so finally just wraps the uniform shirt around his waist like a towel, a completely ridiculous sight with one side of the shimmering thong riding up on his wide hips. It’s… really damn cute. “Guess I’ll be going then.”

Clyde hops up to see him out, polite even with his hand still covering his flagging erection. “You can come back for my real birthday… if you wanna.” 


	9. Night Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clydeland - ABO, mpreg

There’s always that moment between sleeping and waking where dreams and reality meld into one, a moment of fog until the mind catches up and sorts what had been happening in the subconscious from what’s happening in the physical world. Clyde is certain the words “crisp sandwich” being whispered in his ear go solidly into the “dream” category. 

He turns his cheek into his hair fanned out across the drool damp pillow, squinting into the dark at the illuminated red numbers of his alarm clock. 3:37 AM. 

“Clyde!” 

The sharpness of the voice at his side makes him jump and he lumbers over to grope in the warm bedding for his mate. “Stens?” The word is garbled with sleep but laced with concern, lone hand finally finding the curve of a hip and travelling up and over until it rests across the omega’s distended belly. “What’s wrong, darlin’? Somethin’ the matter?” 

“I want a crisp sandwich.” 

Clyde sighs with relief that it’s just another craving, settling back down and nuzzling his face against the base of Stensland’s neck. “You want a what now?” 

He isn’t sure  _ why _ that was the wrong thing to say, but immediately knows he’s fucked up when Stensland goes stiff in his arms. “Darlin’?” He hesitantly lifts his head back up, movements slow like he’s trying not to provoke a bear into attacking. 

“You don’t even care about the culture of my people!” Comes the banshee shriek. Then a sniffle. And then the sobbing. 

“Oh, darlin’, oh, baby, don’t cry now. A crisp sandwich is like a… like an Irish thing?” 

Stensland half growls half bawls something that Clyde assumes to be an affirmative. 

“I’ll get you a uh… crisp sandwich… alright?”

“You can’t just  _ buy it _ , you have to  _ make it _ ! Are you telling me you won’t even make our baby crisp sandwiches?! Do you even care about us at all?!” 

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, ‘course I care, Stensland. You just wait here now.” Clyde reaches for his discarded shirt on the floor, and, with a promise to not come back until he has the ingredients for the best crisp sandwich Stensland has ever tasted, he presses a kiss to his temple and hurries out the door. 

“Howdy, Siri. What in the hell’s a crisp sandwich?” 

* * * 

Finding butter with a good “Use By” date in one of the few stores open at four in the morning was a larger task than Clyde had realized, but he makes it home before five, brown paper bag laden with supplies balanced precariously between the stump of his left arm and his chest while he struggles for the keys in the deep pocket of his sweatpants. 

He half expects to find Stensland fast asleep, sandwich cravings forgotten, the case more often than not when he wakes suddenly requesting this or that. Instead, he opens the door to a familiar ambience, Dawson Leery’s earnest voice preaching love and friendship interrupted occasionally by the plastic rustling of a potato chip bag. 

He presses the door closed with the tip of his shoe and holds his breath in preparation for another outburst, but he’s greeted with a warm smile, tear tracks long since dried on glowy cheeks. Stensland’s slouched comfortably in his worn corduroy armchair, favorite striped t-shirt doing its best to contain his belly, threads of the side seams stretched beyond what could reasonably be asked of them. There’s a jar of mayonnaise in one hand, a spoon in the other, and a bag of Cheetos held upright between bare thighs. 

“Hey, baby. I got the ingredients for your sandwich.” There’s still a hesitance to the way Clyde moves as he sets the bag down and edges the perimeter of the small den until he’s close enough to land a quick kiss to the top of red hair in desperate need of a wash. 

“That’s okay, I made flavored mayonnaise.” 

“You… uhh… you what?” He watches with an increasingly common mix of horror, fascination, and unconditional adoration as Stensland grabs a handful of cheetos, drops them into the jar, and mashes them around with the spoon. Clyde swallows down a gag. “Looks delicious, darlin’.”

 


	10. Roadside Assistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitter Poll Drabble Week 1 - Who knows how to change a tire?

_Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thump._ **  
**

“I told you to get that leak patched weeks ago,” Hux grumbles, crossing his arms across his chest as Ren guides their car to the side of the interstate, each rotation of the tires a lopsided struggle.

“It was a slow leak, I thought it would be fine.”

“Fine until you hit a curb because you were too busy making a playlist on Spotify—”

“For  _our wedding_!”

“We hired a DJ!”

Ren throws his hands up in defeat, clearly unable to say anything right at the moment, and gets out of the car to check the blown tire. He hears the telltale slam of the car door as Hux is hot on his heels, and can nearly feel it when his fiance crosses his arms over his chest with an angry finality that lets Ren know he’s in for a very long day indeed.

“Well?” Hux snaps.

“Well, what? Want me to get you the jack, Your Highness?”

“Get  _me_  the jack? I’m not changing that, you’re the one who did it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Your grandfather was literally a mechanic for fifty years, what do you mean you don’t know how?”

“He never taught me, I was too young and then he was too old. You’re always bragging about how independent you are, Armitage ‘I-Don’t-Need-No-Man’ Hux. Let’s see it then.”

“I just got a manicure.”

Ben’s jaw falls open with all the rude things he’d like to say threatening to fall out.

“For  _our wedding_!” Hux mimics the earlier excuse in a wildly exaggerated tone.

“You don’t know how, do you?”

“I do too!”

“Prove it!”

“My  _nails_. Do you want me to look like I’ve been digging through the trash on our wedding day?”

“You don’t know how.”

Hus scoffs and looks for a moment like he’s going to protest the accusations again, but instead rolls his eyes and reaches for his phone. “I don’t have time for this. We’re late as it is for our dancing lesson.”

“Who are you going to call? You let our AAA membership expire. An unnecessary expense, I believe you called it?”

“Phasma.”

“You can’t call Phasma, she already hates me, and will just add this to her list of reasons why you shouldn’t marry—”

“Hi, Phas. Are you busy, darling? Ren and I are stuck on the side of the road. Blown tire, you know how it goes. Ah, you’re a doll. We’re on the I-5 right before the El Toro exit. No, he never learned. Fifty years, yes. I know. But we’ll see you soon.” He kisses into the phone and touches the “End Call” button with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

“Tell her not to come, I’ll figure it out,” Ren grumbles as he pops their trunk to go in search of the jack he knows they keep somewhere in there.

“Figure it out just like you did the Ikea cabinet that everything slides right off of because you used the wrong part for the fourth leg? Kind of like that?”

Ren chooses to ignore the jab—he happens to think their cabinet is charming—and begins pulling out the false bottom of the trunk to get to the spare and tools.

The next forty minutes consist mostly of Hux attempting to direct Ren interspersed with thinly veiled insults, and Ren cursing under his breath, sweaty and grumpy, as he insists after every attempt to get it off that the tire is stuck.

“A lot of good the home gym you insisted upon is doing you. Step on the lever if your arms aren’t strong enough. Put your whole weight into it. Anakin is rolling in his grave. Let me see that.”

Ren is pushed out of the way and Hux takes his place, putting his hands awkwardly on the lever, fingertips bent up to avoid touching his pristine nails to the tool that’s been in the bottom of their trunk for who knows how long. He pushes on it, features twitching as if he’s trying to keep the strain off of his face, but he finally slumps beside it, immaculately groomed brows pulling together with his rage.

“Oh ho! Not so strong now, are we? Maybe  _you_  should make use of the home gym!”

“Is that any way to treat your fiance?” Phasma chooses that moment to appear, both of them having been too invested in glaring at one another to see her pull up.

“It’s alright, Phas,” Hux pouts, the fierceness on his face being replaced with a soft sort of resignation.  _Oh, he’s good_. “I’m used to being talked to like this.”

She fixes Ren with a withering stare weighted with warning before crouching down next to her friend and laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, I’ll get it, okay? Just get in the car with the air conditioning, you can’t be out in the sun with your complexion.”

Hux gives a solemn nod, eyes lowered demurely, as he gets to his feet, delicately dusting off the back of his pressed jeans. But the moment Phasma’s back is turned, he sticks his tongue out at his soon-to-be-husband with his childish victory.


	11. Shrimply Irresistible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitter Poll Drabble Week 2 - Who knows how to cook?

“I can feel you lingering in the doorway.”

Hux rocks to the balls of his feet as he’s caught, hesitating before stepping fully within the boundaries of the tiny kitchen. 

He had grown up under the brutal care of Brendol Hux. He had been slammed to the ground before his crew by invisible hands. He’s had blasters drawn in his face, knives angled at his throat—there was even a time he did a short stint in medbay after contracting an unknown virus from an outer rim planet. And yet, nothing struck the same terror in him as hearing Kylo Ren say the words “I’m cooking dinner.”

“I have a sensitive stomach,” Hux warns now, craning his neck to try to see but not daring to step closer, half afraid that whatever’s in the skillet will jump out to bite him.

“I’m aware.”

“I can’t eat anything spicy.”

“I know.”

“Not even the slightest bit spicy.”

“This isn’t.”

“Well then.” Hux pads softly across the pristine, shined floors to peer over Ren’s shoulder. “Shrimp?”

“Angel-pin shrimp, yes.”

Hux audibly sniffs, brows lifting towards his hairline as he finds it actually smells quite delectable. He watches the way Ren turns them in the pan, and then sets down his tongs to pick up a knife instead, chopping some sort of nearly translucent, green vegetable into tidy, even slices.

“You can cook?”

Ren huffs a rumbling laugh that Hux can feel where he had inadvertently pressed his own chest against Ren’s back. “I can. That’s why I offered.”

“Mm.” Hux steps back to lean against the counter instead, transfixed as he watches the vegetables be slid in with the shrimp, sizzling when they meet the oil pooled in the bottom. A dash of pink salt is sprinkled across the top, a pinch of a yellow, dry spice he doesn’t recognize, the movements fast and familiar. “Where did you learn?”

“I didn’t have many friends as a child—”

“I figured.”

“—but we had a kitchen droid that didn’t mind me hanging around.”

Ren turns around before Hux has a chance to answer, a lazy smile tilting up his lips as his warm brown eyes meet Hux’s. He lifts his pinched fingers towards Hux’s lips, pressing something juicy against them. Hux accepts the bite with no small measure of hesitance, but it tastes as good as it looked, though he isn’t given a chance to say that either as he’s silenced with a kiss.

“You taste good,” Ren teases once he pulls away before facing the stove again, leaving Hux breathless and wide eyed behind him.

“I know,” is all Hux can dumbly think to say when his thoughts catch up. And then: “A droid was my only friend when I was little too.”

“Yeah?”

“Well,  _friend_  is a bit of a strong word. He fed me ration bars.”

Hux shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rolling to the balls of his feet to his heels and back again, as he watches Ren resume his cooking as if nothing had just happened, as if he hadn’t _kriffing kissed him_. Gathering his boldness around him, he steps forward to press against Ren’s side, not well versed in the way of flirting, but physical contact seemed a good first step. “But I think I like this better.” 


	12. Hellbeast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitter Poll Drabble Week 3 - Who hides under the blanket during scary scenes in movies?

Hux starts and jerks forward, head whipping around to peer into the darkness behind the couch at the squeak on the staircase. “What was that?” he whispers, driving his elbow into Ren’s side to get his attention.

Ren reaches out to pause the movie, a long suffering sigh deflating his shoulders. “It was just the cat. We’re literally two minutes into this movie, they haven’t even finished moving into their house. Let’s stop and watch House Hunters instead like you wanted.”

Hux shakes his head and nestles back against his husband’s side, fingers curling around the top of the blanket draped over them and tugging it a little higher towards his chin. Because of the cold.  _ Not _ because he’s scared. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I  _ want _ to watch this; it’s your favorite.”

He can feel Ren’s scrutinizing gaze burning a hole in the top of his head, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

“Okay, but I have a meeting early tomorrow morning, we’re not sleeping with the lights on like after The Blair Witch Project.”

“That was years ago—”

“It was four months ago.”

“—and I already told you I’m fine. I’m excited to see this, just start it back up.”

Ren presses play.

The movie is a artful presentation of ambient sound and limiting camera angles from the get-go. Hux’s hands unconsciously move upwards, ready to press his knuckles against his ears at the first inhuman shriek, craning his neck this way and that in a vain attempt to see around the corners on the screen.

“Why are the kids playing that game?” He whispers as he watches the little girls play a form of hide and seek, the seeker’s eyes pressed closed and arms outstretched as she ambles around the house. “It’s incredibly unsafe,” he reasons, ducking his head as she approaches a closet that surely a spirit or demon is lurking within.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” Ren questions again, to which Hux stubbornly shakes his head.

The little girls are sleeping peacefully when one is woken by an unseen force dragging her down the length of her bed. She sits up with a start, gaze drawn to the shadowy abyss behind her door. She wakes her sister, claiming there’s someone there.

Hux’s gaze flicks down the hall where their linen closet door rests open in much the same way.

_ “It’s looking right at us.” _ The older sister gets up to investigate while the younger looks tearfully on.

“Ren, did you hear something?”

“Probably just the cat again,” Ren groans. “But I’ll check if it’ll make you feel better.”

Hux nods until Ren actually disentangles himself and takes his comforting warmth with him. “Wait—” He reaches out, but Ren is already heading into the dark.

Suddenly something tears down the hallway at breakneck speed, pulling at the carpet with each galloping stride. It leaps at the open door, slamming it closed, and continues to hurtle towards the living room.

A shrill cry rips from Hux’s throat as he flattens himself against the couch cushions, pulling the protective cashmere blanket up over his head.

The hellbeast lands solidly on the back of the couch, jumping down, stepping on Hux’s back before settling near the bump of his head beneath the blanket. And… it purrs.

“Told you it was just the cat!”


	13. Childproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitter Poll Drabble Week 4 - Who over-prepares for their first baby? {mpreg}

Kylo knows something is wrong the moment he sets foot through the door. The lights are off; he can’t see into the shadowy abyss that their living room has become, but the house feels… empty. He finds himself almost hesitating before flipping the switch, squinting as the incandescent lighting illuminates the room with a soft glow. 

The room felt empty because it is. Or, nearly.

The coffee table is nowhere to be seen, the matching end tables are gone from their posts on either side of the couch, the entertainment stand and the TV that sat upon it are both missing from their place against the wall. The couch and armchair are the only bits of furniture left standing. 

His first thought is that they were robbed, but the room is impeccably clean as always, and Hux’s car had been in the driveway. He would have told him if that were the case. And it’s not like anyone would want their coffee table, of all things. So what…?

His own line of thought is interrupted when his gaze is caught by a fluorescent green cover on the electrical socket near the baseboards where their TV once would have been. 

Oh no. 

He spins in a small circle, dread settling in the pit of his stomach at the flashes of green, shocking against their white walls, where all of their sockets are. 

He’d been afraid of this.

“Hux? Babe?” He calls out into the echoey house, a smidge of frenetic energy to his voice. He turns to hurry up the stairs only to have his progress thwarted by a gate firmly affixed across the bottom step. He swears under his breath as the hard plastic meets his knee before stepping over the damned thing and making his way up to their bedroom. 

“Hux?”

Yellowed light filters out into the hallway from beneath the door, and he holds his breath as he reaches to open it, afraid of what state he’ll find his husband in. 

Hux is propped up by a generous mountain of pillows against their headboard, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and his eyebrows are knit together in concentration. He holds an empty toilet paper roll in one hand and one of Millicent’s toy mice in the other, a wider assortment of her playthings resting in a pile on the top of his rounded belly. 

“Babe? What… what are you doing?” Kylo tries to infuse his voice with a warm smile as he watches Hux push the mouse through the cardboard tube then promptly toss it into a small trash can beside the bed. 

“If an object is small enough to fit through a toilet paper roll, it’s a choking hazard,” Hux explains, sparing Kylo a glance that somehow manages to make him feel like an idiot for not assuming as much. Hux picks up another toy, this one a ball with bells inside, and presses it to the opening. It doesn’t fit through the tunnel, so it is placed in a basket resting on Kylo’s side of the bed. 

“Ah, right. Of course.” 

“How was your flight home?” Hux asks eventually to fill the silence. 

Kylo lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, passing a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck as he takes a few more steps into their room. “Fine. Mom sent me with some old books for you, but I’m not sure you’ll have much use for pregnancy tips from the 80’s.” 

Another silence that Kylo doesn’t know how to fill, four more toys dropped into the garbage. 

“Hey, babe,” he ventures, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of the furniture downstairs is gone. Do you… uh… do you know anything about that?” 

“Phasma and Mitaka moved it all to storage for us while you were away.”

“Oh, they did? W...why?” 

“We can have it brought back when our child is two and a half years old. That is the average age that they can walk unassisted, and will no longer be in danger of bashing their brains out on the carelessly unguarded sharp edges of furniture.” Hux sets his project aside to fix Kylo with a small, disappointed frown. “You’re going to be a new father, Ren, you don’t need a television.” 

“Ah, babe, I don’t need a TV, you’re right. I didn’t mean it like that. We’re going to have our hands full.” He places his hands now across the swell of Hux’s belly, fingers splayed wide as he rubs them over the curve in a greeting to their unborn little one. 

Hux smiles and lays his own hands atop Kylo’s to follow the movement. “Oh, and, Ren? Don’t be surprised when you go into the garage. I found a buyer for your motorcycle.” 

Kylo freezes. “You did what now?” 


	14. On One Knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twitter Poll Drabble Week 5 - Who proposes marriage first?

Hux’s heart stops when Kylo kneels before him outside the coffee shop where they had their first date after being set up by a friend of Phasma’s. **  
**

That had been three years ago. Since then they’ve broken up and gotten back together once, bought a car, weathered illness and the loss of a job, celebrated a promotion, met each other’s families and friends, moved into a condo in the city… and recently Hux had caught Kylo texting Phasma about his ring size.

He’s going to pop the question, Hux is sure of it.

And this must be that moment.

He feels the blood rush to his cheeks, gaze darting nervously around them to see if anyone is staring. They aren’t.

“Hux, I—”

“I do.”

“—found a heads up penny! Think it’ll bring me luck?” Kylo gets back to his feet, holding a shiny copper coin up for Hux’s scrutiny.

“Do I think it’ll… “ Hux’s voice tapers off with his disbelief, watching Kylo’s back as he walks the couple of steps to the cafe door and holds it open for him.

*** * ***

Hux turns the page on his Kindle, settling down further in the nest of blankets and pillows on their bed as he gets to a particularly intense part of the book. The protagonists solved the last piece of the puzzle, they’re on the trail of the killer—

Kylo gets down on one knee beside the bed, and suddenly the story doesn’t feel so important. Hux clicks the button at the top to power off the screen, pulls his reading glasses off the bridge of his nose to set them on the bedside table, hands trembling with excitement.  

“Hux?”

“Yes?” He replies in a breathless way that ordinarily he’d be embarrassed about.

Kylo pauses, reaches for something tucked beneath the bed, and pulls out… an Ugg boot. “Isn’t this that missing shoe you were looking for?”

*** * ***

Hux wasn’t sure  _why_  Kylo had been so insistent on them waking up early to take a hike into the forested hills on the outskirts of the city, but when Kylo asks him to pause for a moment and promptly kneels, it suddenly makes sense.

“Ren, are you really doing it this time?” Hux questions cautiously, smiling a little despite himself when those warm brown eyes turn up to meet his.

“I’m finally doing it,” Kylo responds and returns the smile with an earnest grin. But then he shifts his gaze downwards and gets to work tying his shoe. “I know you’ve been telling me since we started dating that I should just double knot my shoes. You were right.”

Hux storms back down the trail with a stomping, bratty stride, digging his nails into his palms to keep from screaming.

*** * ***

“Hux?”

Hux glances over his shoulder to see Kylo kneeling on the tiled floor of the kitchen. He turns back to the stove, grip tightening on the wooden spoon as he stirs the spaghetti sauce a little faster. “I’m not falling for it this time, Ren. Make yourself useful and set the table or pour me another glass of wine.”

“Hux.”

Hux pointedly ignores him, and moves the saucepan off the heat with enough force to send little red splatters over the gleaming black surface of the appliance. “I have an open bottle of white on the island.” He grabs a potholder and bends over to peer into the oven, checking on their garlic bread.

“Hux, look at me.”

Hux straightens up, hands gripping the handle of the oven door as he draws in a deep breath. No, not again, not again.

“Please?”

There’s a hint of regret permeating Kylo’s tone that finally breaks Hux down. He turns around with his features preemptively screwed up into a glare, but, much to his surprise, this time there is actually a little black box in Kylo’s hand.

“There better not be a bracelet in there.”

A lopsided smirk curves the corner of Kylo’s lips, and, for one horrible second, Hux’s heart drops. But then the box is pulled open, and, there nestled in a pillow of velvet, is a platinum ring, tiny chips of diamond circling the band just like the one he had shown Phasma.

“Well?” Kylo prompts.

Hux heaves an exasperated sigh as he plucks the box from his boyfriend’s hand, pretending to inspect the ring as if its quality would somehow sway his decision. “I suppose.”


	15. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poll Drabble Week 6 - Who is more stylish? (Techienician)

“Well that’s odd…” Hux leans against the kitchen counter and opens the Facebook app on his phone to confirm the push notifications hadn’t just been malfunctioning. **  
**

“What?” Kylo asks absentmindedly over his shoulder as he opens the bottle of red wine that Hux had brought home.

“I just got a friend request from your assistant.” Without thinking much more on it, he accepts and slips his phone into his pocket to get back to chopping bell peppers for their salad. “But anyways, I told you we had a bit of excitement at work today. Thanisson was supposed to forward Mitaka’s draft, but the poor lad attached the resume he was updating instead, and—” Hux’s story is interrupted by an insistent, short buzz in his pocket, then another. And another and another and another.

WIth his face preemptively screwed up in annoyance, he pulls it out again and finds a text from his brother. His expression softens.   
_-_  
Techie: Matt asked me on a date and I don’t know what to wear.  
_Techie_ : Is paisley okay for a first date?  
_Techie_ : Paisley is a fancy print right?  
_Techie_ : Is Denny’s fancy?  
_Techie_ : Matt likes their cheese sticks, he told me so, so I think we’re going to go to Denny’s.  
_Techie_ : The waiters wear maroon polos. Should I wear one too to be on the safe side?  
_Techie_ : Wait, Mom always told us not to wear red because of our hair.  
_Techie_ : Does maroon count as red?  
_Techie_ : What about a paisley polo?  
_Techie_ : Wait, I don’t have a paisley polo.  
_Techie_ : Am I allowed to wear clothes Matt has seen before?  
_Techie_ : Am I allowed to see Matt before the date or is that bad luck?  
_Techie_ : Wait, that’s weddings.  
_Techie_ : You saw Kylo on your wedding day.  
_Techie_ : Is that why you guys argue all the time?  
-  
“When did your assistant meet my brother?” The question barely has time to leave Hux’s lips before another notification pops up at the top of his screen: a Facebook message.   
_-_  
_Matt Radar_ : Does Techie like the color orange? Yes or no? Please respond.   
-  
“What in the world—”

“Uhh, the Christmas party, I think,” Kylo replies as he brings the open wine and two clean glasses to the dining table, oblivious to the chaos erupting on Hux’s phone. “They hit it off over the fake plants in the ballroom.”

Hux hums thoughtfully, fighting his instinct to block Matt and talk Techie out of the date. If someone could “hit it off” with his brother over some plastic leaves, maybe he shouldn’t interfere with fate. He sends Matt’s question.   
_-_  
_Techie_ : I like orange.  
_Techie_ : But not because of the sun.  
_Techie_ : The sun is white. It only looks orange because the atmosphere scatters light.  
_Techie_ : Why?  
_Techie_ : Is that a no to the maroon?   
-  
Hux lets Matt know that yes, Techie does in fact like orange.   
-  
_Matt Radar_ : Did he say why?  
_Armitage Hux_ : Not because of the sun.  
_Matt Radar_ : Of course not, the sun is white.  
_Matt Radar_ : Does he like the sun? Should I wear white?  
_Matt Radar_ : I don’t own white. I own orange.   
_-_  
_Techie_ : Hello? Are you and Kylo arguing again?   
-  
_Matt Radar_ : Please respond.   
-  
“Hux?” Kylo wafts the glass of wine beneath his nose like smelling salts. “Everything alright?”

Hux snatches the wine glass to take a less-than-dainty sip, and replaces it in Kylo’s hand with the phone. “Read.”

Hux watches his husband’s eyes flick back and forth across the screen, a grin slowly lifting the corners of his lips. “Well?” Hux asks, impatient.

“He gets it from you.”

“Who gets what from me?”

“Techie. You sent Phasma similar texts the first time we went for drinks all those years ago.” He hands the phone back. “And that wasn’t even a date.”

“I did no such thing.” Hux sticks his phone in the half-open silverware drawer and bumps it closed with his hip. A problem for later. “I knew exactly what I was going to wear. That sweater that showed off my collarbones because I caught you staring at them all the time, and the faded jeans that made my ass look amazing. I didn’t need Phasma’s help for that, thank you very much.”

He tucks the salad bowl under his arm while Kylo grabs their plates, and heads into the dining room. He’s tipping his wine glass back to drain the last bit tinting the crystal pink, when the rest of Kylo’s comment clicks. He coughs and sputters, bringing the glass back to his lips to spit the sip out. “ _What do you mean_  that wasn’t a date?”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter @h311cat](https://twitter.com/h311cat) or on [tumblr](https://h3llcat.tumblr.com/).


End file.
